


I Gode Hender

by Artemis_Day



Series: Scientific Soulmates [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate MCU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Fluff, Awesome Jane Foster, BAMF Bucky Barnes, BAMF Loki (Marvel), Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Darcy Lewis Is a Good Bro, F/M, Jane Foster Loves Science, Loki (Marvel) Does What He Wants, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Multi, Pre-Thor (2011), Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Jane Foster, Protective Loki (Marvel), Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-05 21:30:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18374444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis_Day/pseuds/Artemis_Day
Summary: Fate is a mysterious thing. No one ever knows what hand it will deal. Loki has never been one to follow the path laid out for him, but when he discovers the two souls waiting for him on Midgard, fighting fate is the last thing on his mind.





	1. Loki

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a fic that's been in the works for a million years. It's one I've dreamed of writing for so long, I can't even remember a time when it wasn't in my head.
> 
> I have the second chapter fully written. It'll probably be out when the third chapter is done. There will be five in all, with possibly more to come after. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Loki was in the library the first time it happened.

He had his nose in an herbal magic tome older than the All-Father and a head full of rare spices. Next week was his and Thor's annual hunting trip to Alfheim. When they failed to catch more than a few rabbits because Thor's idea of stealth was wrestling deer to the ground, he hoped to at least gather supplies for a few decent salves.

"Hah, that's what Eir is for," Thor would laugh, as he always did when Loki compared plant types to find the one that will not burn him away from the inside.

"Say it again when an ogre rips your arms off and Eir is nowhere to be found."

Sometimes, Loki wished Thor would get hurt so badly just so he could heal him with his homemade remedies and silence his jeers forever. It wasn't that Loki didn't love his brother, simply that Thor had needed a good knock on the head since they were boys. Perhaps longer.

He scratched out an incorrect line and rewrote it. That was when a knife went straight through his right hand.

Loki cursed and clutched his throbbing hand. He searched the winding row of books, sending out his magic and finding he was alone. If it was an attack, his foe was long gone. Loki checked his hand, finding no laceration, no blood, not even a scar. He traced a line from his pinkie finger to his thumb. His skin reacted accordingly to the touch. The long lines a drunken soothsayer once claimed meant he was destined to fall in love with his horse were unchanged.

The pain had left him, almost as suddenly as it came. What could have caused it if not an assassin's blade or a stray beast released from the enclaves? Loki had one idea. He checked the sun to confirm it. Another afternoon had passed and he'd been in this library for at least fifty hours. Such a long session was never good for the mind, even one as vast as his own. Clearly, the lack of sleep was getting to him. Giving him phantom pains.

He left his books and papers where they lay. The librarians knew better than to tamper with his space. The next morning, Loki took breakfast in Frigga's drawing room and then trained with Thor until noon. He returned to the library in the afternoon and remained until dawn, the events of the previous night forgotten.

**

"My body was weary from battle. Days had passed since my last sleep. With my armor caked in the blood of my foes, I carried on. For though the battle was long, the war was not yet over. Mjolnir guided me through the thickets-"

"And into the nearest stream to wash the dung out of your ears."

Thor's riotous laughter put all of his friends (their friends?) to shame. He wrapped one meaty arm around Loki's shoulders, hugging him until his bones ached. The pain was nothing, not after years of Thor's misguided displays of affection. Loki sipped his mead like all was well and the party raged on, likely for the next week.

"Brother, how is that you can keep to your own table all night and still find a way to interrupt my epic tale?" he asked.

"That is an excellent question," Loki said. "If you ever do tell an epic tale, I'll let you know."

"Come now, Loki," Thor squeezed his arm, making him wince. "This is a celebration! The ogres have been driven back and Alfheim is safe again. We couldn't have done it without you."

That was fair to say. Loki was not so humble that he couldn't admit they were lost without him. It was his magic which cloaked them as they infiltrated the enemy's encampment, and it was he who brought down the leader with a well-aimed blade to the chest. That Thor got the final blow was of no consequence. He never would've had a clear shot without Loki incapacitating their foe first. Honestly, he would've died anyway. Mjolnir simply sped up the process.

Try telling that to a horde of slobbering drunks who chanted Thor's name like the sun shone out his ass and treated Loki like a wall ornament. At least the food was good.

He reached for a leg of lamb and snatched his hand back when the meat burned him. Strange. It had been sitting out far too long to still be hot. Loki checked his palm and found no redness, though the searing pain continued long after it should have alleviated.

"Loki?" Thor's voice boomed.

"I'm fine," Loki said. He retrieved the lamb leg. It was room temperature. He turned his back to Thor who soon chalked it up to Loki's usual aloof nature and went back to his not-so-epic tale of whichever hideous beast he killed this week.

Loki kept to himself for the rest of the night, even more than usual. Every now and then, his eyes wandered back to his empty palm. It no longer hurt, but the burning had sent him back to a seemingly random night in the library. There was no way the two incidents could be related, though. That happened years ago.

Twenty-seven years to be exact.

**

It came and went intermittently for the next few decades. That inexplicable burning sensation. Always on his right hand. Always over the palm. He'd be reading or having his dinner or in an important council meeting, and all of a sudden, there it was. Like a hot poker pressed against his skin.

He stopped noticing it. Asgardians were no more immune to the passage of time than a common mouse, even if it did take an army to kill just one. Any mortal body, no matter how durable, came with its creaks and groans. This was just one of Loki's. Why he was ever concerned by something so petty, he'd never know. Just a moment of weakness he would not repeat again. A simple passing fancy.

One night, he awoke to the stabbing. He'd been on one of Alfheim many luxury beaches, taking in the sun while Thor and his troupe of mad drunks had their revelry elsewhere. He listened to the waves, thinking perhaps he'd take a walk through the forest or do some hunting. How nice it would be to keep all the spoils of a successful hunt for a change. Then a knife tore through nerves and tissue and he was back in his room in the royal palace.

"Why now," he mumbled, turning on his side. The pain persisted, long enough for cold realization to wash over him like an ice water bath.

It was his  _left_  hand.

He bolted upright, knowing what he would find but needing to check anyway. His left hand was clear and blemish free, just like his right. He flexed his fingers, the joints bending into tight balls as he made a fist. The pain, as always, was gone. Like it had never been there. Like he imagined it.

The sun rose all too soon and a maid came to knock on his door. Today he was having tea with Frigga in the gardens. He'd never once kept her waiting and didn't plan to start now. His mind was miles away even as she refilled his cup and spoke of matters around the palace and surrounding city. It was a gloomy morning in late spring. The rains would come by mid-afternoon. Rolls of thunder reverberated off the landscape already, and Loki sighed. Thor was getting ahead of himself.

Every few seconds, he glanced at his palms, pure white and cool to the touch. "Mother, may I…"

She waited, but he never finished the thought. "Are you well, Loki? You seem distracted."

He curled his fingers once. Twice. Relaxed. "No… forgive me, I've been working harder than usual as of late."

Frigga smiled, and Loki was saved from a lecture about the importance of self-care by a breathless page boy skidding to a halt at their feet. He informed them that Vanaheim was in civil strife and required immediate assistance.

**

It was a long twenty-eight years.

Longer than they had any right to be. A Midgardian could go from swaddling clothes to adulthood. Loki felt like he'd aged a thousand years in the time between the declaration of war and the signing of the peace treaty. Why the Aesir needed to be present, he didn't know. Why they continued to be involved in this pointless conflict when they should've pulled out a decade ago, he also didn't know, but Odin loved to be the peacemaker and Thor loved to be the hero. From that point of view, staying was the only choice. And so, stay they did.

Loki let out a breath when the All-Father inked his name just below the Vanir kings. He'd half expected that hothead of a rebel leader to make a dramatic return from the dead and slit a few throats to get his enemies' blood boiling again. It wouldn't be the first time. The fool made Thor look like a pacifist and if Loki hadn't burned the body himself and thrown the ashes through a portal to Muspelheim, he'd be legitimately concerned.

But now the war was over, the insurgents jailed or placated, and life would return to normal for the people of Vanaheim and Asgard. Thor could go back to preparing to take the throne. Loki could go back to keeping Thor's head attached to his neck. All was well and there wasn't a thing to worry about.

Loki hissed and clenched a fist as his right hand burned. He dug his nails into the skin until it subsided and drew a shaky breath.

"Ah yes," he muttered. "I forgot."

"Forgot what, brother?"

Loki glanced in Thor's direction. "Forgot to remind you that you're an imbecile today. I'm obliged to do so once every twenty-four hours."

As expected, Thor's laughter shook the windows. His entourage laughed with him, save for Sif who looked at Loki like he was a particularly vile bit of vermin. Loki grinned innocently. "Your hair is lovely tonight," he mouthed.

"All right, men, let's not drink too much," Thor announced. He'd only had three pints of mead in the last two hours. That had to be a record. "Don't forget, our Vanar friends will be throwing us a banquet to celebrate our triumphant return home. It wouldn't do to sleep in and miss the festivities."

"Better to leave drunk than arrive drunk!" Fandral shouted. He downed his entire tankard anyway and threw it against the wall. Another was immediately brought to him.

"Ah, but the trickster has had enough for all of us, hasn't he?" This voice, Loki didn't know. It came from a man by the window. Large nosed, red-cheeked, and fresh-faced, he grinned with impossibly white teeth as his compatriots chortled. It took Loki all of a second to determine they were as worthy of attention as a single dust mite. "What's this? Nothing to say? You've been by yourself all night, trickster. Won't you share a pint with me?"

"For your own sake, I must decline," said Loki.

The man guffawed. It was a particularly unpleasant sound. If he had a woman waiting for him at home, Loki pitied her. "It looks like the dreaded god of Mischief is frightened of little old me!"

"Now now, Gjurd, let's not make a scene," said Thor.

"I speak only in jest, my prince," said Gjurd, who failed to realize in his hasty attempts at respectability that Loki was also royalty. "However, if I were to formally challenge the trickster to a drinking contest, he would surely be brave enough to accept."

His group of friends cheered him on, but they were alone. Everyone else cast apprehensive eyes upon Loki, who gestured at the bar wench to bring out a fresh tray. He strolled around the tables as one of Gjurd's friends vacated his seat. "Very well. Whoever's feet leave the ground first is the loser."

Gjurd grinned. "Don't think I'll go easy on you because you're a prince."

"Mm-hm…" Loki said, ignoring Thor's concerned stare as the first round of drinks arrived.

He left the bar an hour later as healers arrived to carry Gjurd to the infirmary. Loki finished his last drink, the taste just bitter enough to dull his senses for several seconds. Gjurd's friends scurried after the stretcher, avoiding eye contact with Loki.

"I admire your restraint, brother," Thor said. "This one might actually survive."

"Occasionally, I can be merciful," Loki said airily.

He exited the tavern and walked through. The night was young and he could use some fresh air.

**

The party began first thing the next morning. One would think they'd wait until all the hangovers had subsided, but of course, if Thor was awake, everyone was awake.

It was a perfect storm of gaiety, terrible music, and enough alcohol to fill a dozen oceans. Loki declined to participate in any drinking games, and after last night's display, most of the less seasoned warriors were relieved. Breakfast was served, followed by a mid-morning snack, followed by lunch. Hours passed quicker than Loki expected, but still far too slowly. When the sun had reached its highest point, Thor began a rousing game of 'try and take Mjolnir from me.'

"Whoever can have it off me wins a prize," Thor said. He never specified what that prize was because none of these fools had a prayer of wielding the legendary hammer. Even if it wasn't tied irrevocably to Thor, a common insect would be worthy before any of these buffoons.

To be fair, most of them knew that. It wasn't about becoming the next God of Thunder. It was the thrill, and the chance to fight in single combat with the Mighty Thor himself and test their mettle against an unbeatable opponent. And it was the mead.

Mostly the mead.

Loki, who had nothing to prove (today), was content to watch the festivities from a distance. He found an empty table under the shade of an ancient tree and withdrew a shrunken book from his pocket. After restoring it to its' proper size, he flipped to the marked page and settled in to enjoy a few peaceful moments of silent reading.

Two men flew over his head, landing in the mud as their brothers in arms cheered them on. Loki's nostrils flared and he cast a muting spell around his ears to drown them out. It worked well for a short time, and then his carefully selected private spot was invaded. A statuesque Vanir woman dressed in all her finery sat down beside him. With her was a small, soft-faced man in tailormade silver armor which made his head look too small for his body.

"All alone again, are we?" The woman's hazel eyes sparkled. "You are quite an enigma, Odinson. I never know what's happening in that brain of yours."

"Be grateful, Ylva. Traversing my innermost thoughts is a torment I would wish upon no man."

Ylva chortled in such a way that Loki wondered where Thor had gotten off to. "You truly are a card, Silvertongue."

Loki raised an eyebrow. "Pardon me? I'm a  _card?_ "

"Midgardian colloquialism," Ylva explained. "I've learned so many since John and I started taking our summers in England. It's a beautiful country. Have you traveled to Midgard recently?"

"I can't say that I have." Loki glanced at John, trapped in his wife's arms and looking perfectly content despite the occasional wheezing cough.

"It's changed a lot since I was a boy," John said. He beard was peppered with grays, had been for the last three hundred years. "We were there just last year for the birth of my brother's great-great-great... I've honestly lost count, grandson."

Ylva hugged him tighter, the ribbon-like tattoos on their arms shifting from gray to radiant silver. A common reaction when soulmates touched, or so Loki had been told.

They were a fascinating phenomenon, soulmarks. An image or a phrase burned into the skin which dictated who your perfect match would be. Some people had them at birth, some only received them later in life. Each race had a different version, though all defied explanation. Loki was not the type to accept 'it's a mystery' for an answer, but beyond a passing fancy in his youth, he'd never cared to delve deep into soulmate theory. Asgardians didn't have marks of any kind, not even crossing over into other realms, so it never mattered to him.

If Hogun's cousin wanted to mate with a Midgardian all because he shared the same birthmark as her, it wasn't his place to object. Interrupt the ceremony with a few snakes in the wine, yes, but never object.

"Oh, and did you hear the good news?" Ylva asked.

Nothing had been drunkenly shouted from the hilltops in the last several days as far as he knew, so no, he hadn't.

"You'll remember Ylva's sister, Grete, of course," said John excitedly, "well, last month a soulmark appeared on her arm. And it's Midgardian!"

"Ah… congratulations."

"A tremendous occurrence," Ylva gushed, "though not as out of the ordinary as one might think. Midgardian marks are often dominant traits. Which makes John and I a bit of an anomaly."

"No, my love, it makes us special," said John, kissing Ylva's lips.

It quickly turned into a passionate embrace and Loki stared up at the sun before his breakfast re-appeared all over the grass.

At some point, they ceased devouring each other's faces, just as Loki thought he had an opening to excuse himself. He was already half off the chair and most likely looked like a fool frozen in that pose.

"I do feel sorry for her in a way. When the mark first appeared, she was certain she'd been attacked by some invisible force."

"And here I thought soulmarks were a wholly positive occurrence," Loki remarked as he lowered himself back down.

"Of course they are," said Ylva, "but having words etched into your skin is never painless. The poor girl thought she was being stabbed."

Loki nodded, then froze. "Stabbed, you say?"

"Oh yes, you should read up on soulmarks if you have the time. It's fascinating stuff," said John. "Did you know when a person soulmate is injured or near death, the mark will burn?"

"I see," Loki mumbled. He balled his fists. "That's… very interesting."

**

It was ridiculous. Completely absurd.

The idea that Loki, God of Mischief, Asgardian prince second in line for the throne, unparalleled master sorcerer trained by Frigga herself, could have not one but two Midgardian soulmates was utterly laughable. Inconceivable! Anyone who dared imply such a thing, even as a joke, ran the risk of being dropped on a barren rock several galaxies away, depending on Loki's mood.

And yet here he was in his corner of the library, pouring over the most extensive guide to soulmates he could find.

_'It is estimated that between sixty to seventy percent of all Midgardians will obtain a soulmark at some point in their life. Contrary to popular belief, marks are present on the body from birth. However, they are only visible if the soulmate is already living. If a child's mark appears when they are two years old, they will be two years older than their soulmate. Marks can appear anywhere on the body, though the arms, chest, back, and stomach are the most common areas. While it is not impossible to have more than one mark, it is exceptionally rare. Only three percent of all marked Midgardians have two or more marks. When meeting one's soulmate-'_

Loki groaned and flipped to the next chapter. This was not nearly as helpful as he'd hoped. He checked his palms, as he had fruitlessly so many times since his talk with Ylva and John. They were red from rubbing and bare. He put his hands together as the pages turned to the final chapter.

"Spells and potions related to soulmarks," he read aloud. It was worth a try.

He was instantly rewarded.

The spell to reveal a soulmark's location was almost infuriatingly easy. Two lines in the ancient language and his hands glowed bright orange. The light encircled his palms as he looked on in awe. A handy spell, though it only did half the work. Digger deeper through the text, he found a potion scribbled into the corner for concealing marks.

 _'Use for marks in unseemly places,'_  it read. There was nothing about removing the effects of the spell, but that wasn't necessary. Counterspells were child's play and all the ultra-rare ingredients the book warned would be needed for this highly advanced potion had been stored in his closet since Midgard's last dark age.

It took twenty minutes. He was back in his chambers, the book floating at his side. Loki referred to it only once; he had an excellent memory for these things. He poured the completed potion into a small basin, just wide enough to fit both hands at once. In its proper form, this potion would hide the mark behind a flesh-colored coat. Reversing it, he hoped, would only remove the magic, and not peel the skin away from his bones.

His hands shook as he lowered them into the frothy liquid. Part of him still believed this was all a load of rubbish. Nothing in the book said anything about an Aesir gaining a mark. Surely it was impossible, and this whole thing was nothing more than an extended waking dream he had yet to awaken from.

Tingling built in his palms and spread to his wrists. It didn't hurt or even tickle, but the unnatural warmth made his stomach flip. He released a lungful of air and withdrew his hands as the sensation faded. He held them to the light. He swallowed.

There they were.

Fine black lettering, even strokes, almost like ink. He rubbed them, but they didn't smudge. The handwriting differed; firm and masculine on his right hand, messy with infinite loops on his left. They were in English, one of Midgard's primary languages. Allspeak extended to the written word, but they would've been perfectly clear to him regardless.

"Well," he muttered to himself, "that settles that."

Next step: find their identities.

His greatest concern was the mark on his right hand. It had been there for decades before the second mark showed up. Checking his long-forgotten notes on Midgardian culture (as a boy he went through a brief anthropology phase), he found that the average human lifespan was roughly seventy years. It had been well over ninety years since his first soulmark sliced its way into existence. After that, it had taken almost sixty years for the second to appear. A sixty year age difference separated his two soulmates. It was all paltry to Loki, just past his thousandth year, but to a woman (he presumed) who reached adulthood at eighteen, it could be troubling.

 _'There are ways around it,'_  he reminded himself. With the right spell and one of Idunn's golden apples, he could easily grant his soulmate a second youth.

Turning to a new page, he found the spell to reveal his soulmates' identities. It came with a warning about the benefits of waiting, how seeking one's destined love through magic was to some a bad omen. Superstitious drivel Loki didn't bother reading more than a sentence of.

He started with his left hand, the more recent mark. The right twinged, almost accusingly. He was stalling. He didn't want to know what kind of secrets were hidden behind those words.

Loki closed his eyes as per the instructions and recited the incantation. It was a long one, but he was hyper-focused. In the darkness behind his eyelids, a box-shaped window came into being.

Through a rip in spacetime, he saw a woman, small and slight. Goggles adorned her head and her hair hung loosely over her shoulders. She was bent over a desk, writing in an old notebook. Her face was wrought with concentration; Thor could unleash Mjolnir right next to her and Loki doubted she'd look up. He saw flashes of her daily life. Tinkering with primitive electronics, writing equations on a whiteboard, ranting to a curly-haired woman whose eyes were glued to a handheld device.

Loki took hold of the magic swirling around him. It bent to his will, pulling from the ether a swath of relevant information. She was an astrophysicist working to advance Midgard's understanding of interdimensional travel. An Einstein-Rosen bridge, she called it, but she meant the Bifrost. Her work had taken her to a desolate wasteland where few dared to roam. Many in her field thought her a fool. Loki read her notes over her shoulder and knew how wrong they were.

She wasn't quite there yet. Her grip on Bifrost technology was understandably lacking, but for a Midgardian with limited access to the larger universe, she was brilliant. Brilliant and beautiful. Not ethereal like the Aesir ladies who made men's hearts burst with a glance. Her beauty came from the smudge of grease on her left cheek, the callouses on her hands and the cracks in her fingernails from long hours of strenuous work. It came from her smile when she found the solution to a difficult problem. From the sparkle in her eye as she came one step closer to proving herself right and the buffoons who dared to doubt her wrong.

She had a lovely body as well. He'd enjoy seeing it sans clothing one day.

"Jane Foster," he muttered as her name entered his mind. A bit plain, but it suited her.

He spent some time lost in visions of her life. It revolved almost entirely around her work, though he did find a few instances of her putting the telescope down and going out for drinks with her assistant. Darcy, her name was. She was a student of politics who somehow found herself serving a scientist. Strange, but not important enough to dwell on. Occasionally, they were joined by an older man, a friend of Jane's family dating back to her childhood. He encouraged her dreams but worried she'd go too far and lose what little credibility she had. At this very moment, Jane was speaking to him over her computer, arguing about her latest theory. Loki listened in for a moment, then drew back. He opened his eyes, returning to his room and his own reality. There would be time to visit Jane Foster later. His right hand would not stop itching.

He read the mark again. It was shorter than Jane's, a command. Their third would most likely be angry or afraid when they first met. Possibly both. For now, he wouldn't worry about it. Worry never achieved anything more than undue stress with no outlet beyond overthinking one's problem or, in Thor's case, smashing everything in sight.

Steeling himself for whatever was to come, Loki dipped his right hand in the basin. A barrage of images hit him at once, draining the air from his lungs.

He saw a man in uniform, expertly wielding a Midgardian firearm. The same man defending a small, skinny blonde from a larger assailant. On a boat with a grim expression, sailing towards an ominous destiny. In the trenches, covered in dirt and dried blood, watching his comrades bleed to death. Strapped to a table, experimented on. Saved by his old friend, no longer the weakling he once was. Marching back into the fray to avenge himself and his fallen men. Falling from a train, reaching futilely for his friend. Dragged away bleeding. Captured. Cut apart. Rebuilt. Broken down. Frozen-

Loki withdrew. He stared at the far wall of his room, more familiar to him than anything else in the nine realms. He wiped his hand on his coat, not caring if he ruined it. He walked out the door. It slammed shut and locked on its own.

Odin was in the throne room, discussing trade with his advisors. Loki marched inside, past the guard tasked with announcing new arrivals and ignoring the scribe who fell on his ass trying to get out of the second prince's path.

"All-Father, I request an audience."

The advisor- they changed all the time and Loki never bothered to remember their names- glanced nervously at Odin, awaiting his judgment.

Odin, always a king before he was a father, appraised Loki with his single, piercing eye. "Speak freely if you must."

"Alone," Loki said. "Right now."

He walked into Odin's study, not waiting for an invitation. Where he anything less than the man's son, he could expect to lose a finger for his impudence. Standing by the window, Loki waited for Odin to bring a premature end to the meeting. His steps had not lost their echo, even as age set in. Loki braced himself. Giants quaked before the wrath of the All-Father, and so did his children.

"All right, you have my attention," Odin said, his tone kind with a hint of warning. "What troubles you?"

Loki held out his hands, palms out. Odin fell silent, his expression darkening.

"I have these," Loki said. "I know I've had them for some time, and yet they've been hidden from my sight."

"What of it?" Odin asked curtly.

"Tell me why."

Odin made a face like he'd been asked to accept a goat as a dinner guest. "There's nothing to tell."

"Isn't there?" Loki took a step, hands out. The once concealed words were now blacker than night. "These are soulmarks, father. Midgardian soulmarks. They have been active for several decades while I remained unaware. I want to know why."

"You've answered your own question." Odin turned away, choosing the role of a stern sovereign over that of a compassionate father. Not that Loki expected any different. "They are Midgardian. Of course, I knew from your infancy that it would be so, but what difference does it make? Humans are not suitable partners for a prince of Asgard. They are too small, too weak, and too foolhardy to comprehend life among the Aesir."

"So you hid them," Loki said. The taste of Odin's arrogance was bitter, worse even than Thor, who at least looked down upon lesser beings with a genuine smile. "You took the choice away from me."

"You would choose a Midgardian?"

"I would choose to have what is rightfully mine." Loki closed his fists, rubbing his marked skin tenderly. "I can't say I'm thrilled, but if this is how it must be, then so be it."

Odin chuckled. If Loki were still a boy, this would be the part where he'd get a chuckle and a pat on the head before being dismissed. As an adult, he wondered if a night in the darkest dungeon didn't await him.

"Loki, you have learned much. You are surely one of the greatest minds our realm has ever seen." It sounded like a compliment but felt like an insult. "How is it then that you are so naive?"

"It is naive to desire that which has been promised to me?"

"And who promised them to you?"

"Fate." His voice cracked. Even as he said it, he felt the All-Father's scorn.

"You have never abided by the mechanisms of fate."

"Things have changed."

"Have they?"

Odin sat, and Loki almost followed suit. It was ingrained from childhood; never stand if the All-Father is seated, unless he is upon his throne. That eye grew dark as Loki remained upright. He swallowed and straightened his posture until his legs ached.

"I have seen them," he said. "One is a scientist. She seeks the stars and I have no doubt she will find her way to Asgard on her own if given the chance. The other is a warrior, and he has been imprisoned by his enemies."

Odin laced his fingers together. "How long?"

"Long enough." Loki shivered, recalling the unbearable cold. The darkness… "They keep him preserved until he is of use. He is under their control."

"A regrettable fate for any soldier," Odin sighed. "Nevertheless, it is not our place to intervene."

"Forgive me, but have we not fought on the Midgardians' behalf before?"

"Thousands of years ago when they were under siege from a mutual enemy. We have no business involving ourselves in their personal conflicts."

"I understand," Loki said, fists tightening, "however, this conflict involves someone I am bound to by soul. I think that makes it personal to me."

"Loki…"

"And while I will not deny your wisdom, the fact that you took such extreme measures to ensure I would never know my soulmates makes me wonder what else you might be hiding."

"Enough." A ripple of magic, so subtle that only a mage of Loki's caliber could feel it, nearly sent him across the room. He kept his feet flat, his own power all that saved him. He had pushed too hard and he knew it, but there was no turning back.

"Father-"

"I  _said_ ," Odin rose to full height, "enough. I will hear no more."

"Then you expect me to ignore it."

"I expect you to know your place. You have responsibilities here. Thor's coronation is fast approaching, and then he will need you at his right hand, to guide him as he guides our people."

"Of course," Loki chuckled as his blood pumped faster. "How can I forget? My sole purpose in life: propping up Thor."

"Being a leader," Odin countered. "He cannot do it without you, and you cannot do it if you are caught in the matters of humans. They are as mayflies. Dead and gone before you can blink. Leave them be and look instead to the people of Asgard. They are the ones who need you."

The curtains drew on their own, revealing the city in all its golden-arched glory. Men, women, and children crowded the streets. This was the busiest time of day when all the shops closed and the overnight taverns lit their lanterns, inviting weary travelers in for a pint. Somewhere in the throngs, Thor was spinning another heroic yarn as foot soldiers and bar wenches alike hung off his every word. Loki would find him draped over a barrel at the end of the evening, at least one half-naked woman at his feet. Business as usual.

Odin's eyes were on his back, ready to remove that prized silvertongue if Loki spoke a single word out of turn. His hands were clasped, his shoulders straight, his face impassive. "Yes, of course. You are a wise and fair ruler, All-Father. I apologize for disturbing you."

Odin didn't speak or move, but the door opened, indicating Loki was free to go. Before he left, he bowed to his king, gritting his teeth and scowling for the fraction of a second his face was hidden. He turned to leave, his palms now flat against his sides.

"I trust this won't be a repeat discussion," Odin said.

Loki slowed. His hands all the way to the wrist burned. "The All-Father's word is law. You have made your decision and I will not object."

He kept walking until he was out of the throne room, away from the court, as alone as he'd ever been.

**

Two months passed. Loki was bitter and short with his king for several weeks, failing to answer questions when asked and refusing three separate requests for private meetings. It was easy to pretend to be busy with one as boisterous and easily entertained as Thor to tag along with. Loki went on more hunts in those sixty days than he had in sixty years. Sometimes, they would stay out for weeks at a time, and the fresh air did Loki good. It tamed his anger, made him see things in a new perspective.

"Loki, my friend," Volstagg boomed one morning after a hearty breakfast. "Come fish with me. They look to be biting today."

Fishing was not a sport the rest of their group was adept at, but Loki didn't mind a few hours watching them rise and sink under the water, hearing all about the antics of Volstagg's young children. Leaving with a chest full of fresh catch only sweetened the moment.

With each successful trek, Loki's mood improved. He began smiling at his father again, taking meals with him and mother and discussing the latest news from their neighboring realms. Never once did the word 'soulmate' pass his lips. His marks had been covered once more and it was with a smooth, clean hand that he held Frigga's arm and escorted her through the gardens.

"You seem well, Loki," she said as they stopped to admire the primroses.

"Have I ever not been?"

Frigga smiled knowingly. "I only mean your mood has improved. You laugh easier. There must be a reason why."

"Only that I can spend my days surrounded by such beauty." He conjured up a bouquet of the finest flowers Asgard had to offer. As a boy, he would make intricate arrangements every week for Frigga's sewing room. Perhaps it was time to revive the practice.

At the start of the third month, Odin had to depart on a mission of diplomacy. Normally Loki would accompany him to assist in negotiations, but with Thor's coronation drawing nearer by the day, it would better if he got the experience now rather than later. That was how Odin justified asking Loki to stay behind, not that he needed to.

"I am happy to step aside if it means our allies learn to respect Thor as king of the realm," he said, bowing before his father. This was the first time he'd been in the throne room since their altercation. "On my honor, I will do my duty as a prince of Asgard."

This was enough for Odin to leave the next morning without delay. Thor bid his friends and subjects farewell, saving a special clap on the back for Loki.

"Try not to get into too much mischief while we're gone," he said.

"Without you, why would I bother?"

As the Bifrost carried them away, Loki watched from the safety of his chambers until he was certain they were long gone. Heimdall guarded the key as he had for millennia, and while his king was gone, his all-seeing eye would follow them. He'd have no reason to consider what the second son might be up to.

Loki didn't bother walking. He appeared in the palace's grand infirmary as if breaking through a mirror. An unfortunate young woman bearing a tray took a tumble. The tray levitated out of her hands, preserving the delicate instruments. It floated straight into Eir's grasp as Loki bowed his head to her.

"Pardon the interruption," he said. "I hope I haven't come at a bad time."

"Any time is good enough for you, my illustrious prince," sniffed Eir, who was never afraid to speak her mind to a royal's face. That was what everyone liked about her.

"Eir, do you recall my contributions to your heat resistant solvent during the last conflict with Muspelheim?"

Her attendants put on a commendable show of not paying attention. They went about their duties, shooting glances at their mistress and each other when it wasn't too obvious. Eir ignored them all and pursed her lips. "I do. Many lives were saved thanks to you."

Loki nodded, then his smile vanished into a face made of stone. "Eir, I need to request that favor you owe me."

**

Thor and Odin would be gone for five months. That was unlikely to change unless unforeseen circumstances extended their trip. Only a grand scale emergency like the sudden onset of Ragnarok could bring them back early. Even so, Loki worked tirelessly for the next few days with a clock ticking away in his ears.

On a cloudy evening with three of Eir's apprentices standing guard, Loki rested on a stone table, not unlike the one connected to the soul forge. He dressed lightly in a simple green shirt and breeches. No need to be fancy where he was going. He accepted the water jug offered to him and drank deeply as Eir commenced the final preparations.

"Remember what we discussed," she said. "This is our first attempt and the goal is merely to observe the extent of the damage."

"That might take longer than you realize," Loki said, shivering.

"When we proceed to the next phase, caution is key. Removing all foreign elements shouldn't be hard once you know what to look for, but you are treading in dangerous waters. A single misstep could mean the end of him."

"I understand," Loki said, closing his eyes as Eir rested her hand on his forehead.

"Are you ever going to tell me why this man is so important?"

"In time," Loki said bringing his hands together.

 _'If nothing else,'_  he thought in the moments before Eir's magic took hold,  _'thank you, Odin, for encouraging me.'_

With a few short but powerful words, Loki's hold on the physical world slipped away. His body was pulled as if on a string, deep into the mind of James Barnes.


	2. Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's part two! Hope you enjoy.

There was nothing.

Nothing anywhere in this dark, empty space.

He was on the ground, or what should have been the ground.

It may have been nothing, like everything else.

If he had eyes, he'd be looking straight ahead. If he had a mouth, it would be silent. If he had a body, it was heavy on one side.

He never moved. Not unless he was told to. He knew this from fact, not from memory. From memory, he knew nothing.

He was nothing.

**

There was something.

The figure of a man. He knew it was a man, but nothing else. The man was tall, or maybe he was just small. The man was not a handler. He knew this because he still felt the ice. The ice was always around him when he slept. He had to be dreaming.

He'd never dreamed before.

The man stood above him. In front of him. Next to him. He can't figure it out and if he had a head, he'd be gripping it.

"What's your name?"

It was the man's voice. He knew this. He didn't have a voice. Not unless he was told to. No one had told him anything yet. No one ever asked him questions.

He looked at the man. The man didn't move. He didn't move either. Could he move? It was so cold in the ice…

The man frowned and faded away. Maybe he was never really there. Nothing was ever there.

**

The man came back. Time had passed, or so he guessed. Time was measured between activations, when he was needed and when he wasn't. If he was needed, they'd take him off the ice. If he wasn't, he'd stay in the ice until he was. He knew this from fact, not from memory.

The man walked through the darkness, taking it in his hands and tearing it apart. He watched the man, unsure how he was doing that, or why. The man had a system. He'd find a spot, summon green light from his fingertips and shoot it at the darkness. The man did it over and over again. Sometimes, the man paused to look at him. There was something odd in his eyes. The man wouldn't speak.

More time passed, but he wasn't needed yet so he couldn't say how much. The green light disappeared and the man walked to him. The man stood in front of him. The man looked down at him.

"What's your name?"

He opened his mouth. So he did have one of those. He didn't have a voice, though. Or maybe he did. Maybe he didn't remember how to use it.

The man sighed. "Not yet I see…"

The man was gone. Disappeared. Now he was alone again. It was colder without the man. Quieter.

It was also lighter.

**

The man was not afraid of the dark. He grabbed it with no hesitation and turned it to dust. The light was growing. He could see it now. A tiny rip like the seam of a shirt. It grew longer and wider as the man worked. He watched the man and he watched the light. He realized he had eyes and they could see. He saw the rip grow.

"...how many times do I…"

He gasped. He had lungs now. He could breathe. That voice was in his head. Five words that didn't make sense together, a piece of a larger whole. It sounded like a woman; she was stern, yet loving. He felt warm like someone had arms wrapped around him. He felt safe.

His eyes could form tears. He was crying.

"...how many times do I…"

Do I what? What had he done? Something about a rip? Did he rip something? Break something?

There were no facts here, so he knew nothing.

The man continued without looking back. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The man didn't see it. The man only saw darkness. The man fought the darkness. He knew that now. That was a fact.

When the man left, he became a memory.

**  
He knew what he did.

"How many times do I have to tell you not to play stickball in your Sunday clothes? Look at that rip in your shirt."

Yes, that was right. He went out one day before church and played ball with his friends. Then he went home all scuffed up and his mother was furious.

His mother…

He shook as a face came to him. A woman with dark hair and kind eyes. A smile. She hugged him when he cried and sang him to sleep at night. He closed his eyes and thought so hard, it hurt. So much was missing. Lost to the darkness. He clawed through the fog like the man at the darkness. There was a name other than mom. Something everyone else called her. His father called her…

He had a father.

Sturdy, handsome features, blue eyes, large hands. His father held his hand as they went on walks. He taught him how to fish and throw a punch. He sat him down when his sister was born and told him he had responsibilities now as a big brother…

He had a sister.

No, he had several sisters.

He had a whole family.

That was a memory. More importantly, it was a fact.

**

"What's your name?"

The man knelt over him. He wanted to stand, but he only raised his head. It was enough. The man had green eyes. Or were they blue? They were nice either way. Beautiful even. He was a beautiful man.

"I…" His voice wasn't hoarse, at least not much. They let him speak to confirm his orders and issue commands to his team while in the field. This was different. He could choose his words.

"Don't struggle," the man said. He wouldn't touch, but he looked like he wanted to.

"I…"

The man shook his head. "What do you remember?"

His mother was Winifred. It came to him a while ago. Her husband was George. George and Winifred. Winifred and George.

When he ripped his shirt playing stickball before church, his father shook his head at him, disappointed. He used to hate disappointing his father, so from then on, he only played on Fridays and Saturdays.

"Well done," the man said like he heard all that. Like it had been spoken out loud. Had it been? "It will keep coming back to you."

"There's more," he said. He was still shaking. He had a body that could shake.

The man nodded. "Much more."

"I have a name."

"You do."

"I don't know…"

The man's hand on his was strong. He liked the man's hands. "You will."

He would.

**

He stood up. He had legs.

The man faced him. He was almost eye level with the man. The man was tall, and so was he. He was tall and he was strong. He could feel his body now. One arm wasn't the same as the other, but it was still his arm.

"Why?" he asked.

"Why what?" asked the man.

There were huge gaps in the darkness. Through each one was a name or a face or a place or a word. There was a boxing gym. He was a boxer. There was a shooting range. He was a sniper. There were bodies everywhere. He'd been to war.

He killed people.

"Why do this?" He watched himself pass a test in fourth grade through one of the gaps. "Why help me?"

Light surrounded them. It came from nowhere. Or everywhere. He didn't know. His head hurt. He brought a hand to it. It felt solid but not solid. His feet touched the ground, and yet there was no ground. He tapped his heel and heard nothing. He tapped it again and heard an echo. It didn't fade away as it should have, it got louder. His ears hurt like his head hurt. Like a giant's hand was slowly crushing his skull. He inhaled and exhaled. He had a voice but not a face. No name either.

He inhaled again. He exhaled again. His head hurt.

The man touched his hands. "Don't."

Inhale. Exhale. "Don't what?" Inhale. Exhale.

"Strain yourself." The man kissed his hand. His eyes were blue, then green. No, blue. But in a certain light, they were green. "It will come to you. I promise."

"But why?"

He'd been to war.

He'd stepped over bodies.

He'd killed people.

Inhale. Exhale.

"Because you're mine," said the man. "And I am yours."

Mine.

Yours.

_What?_

He opened his hands. He'd made them fists. He was angry, but not at the man. Not at anything he knew, but at something he should know.

When the man left, his chest felt tight. His eyes prickled. He sat in the corner and stared at the light. He wanted to reach for it, but his arms wouldn't move. He opened and closed his fingers instead.

What did he have now?

A head, ears, eyes, hands, feet, fists.

He looked down. He had legs, arms, a body. He touched his face.

He was real.

This place was real. And it wasn't real. He created it.

This place was him.

**

"What's your name?"

The man didn't ask. He did.

He wanted to know.

He was curious.

He was a lot of things.

He was someone.

"Loki," the man said.

That name was familiar. Not like they'd met before, but like he'd heard it somewhere and it stuck with him.

"How did you get here?"

The man smiled. Loki smiled. "Do you know where here is?"

"My mind," he answered. That was a fact and he said it like a fact. He pointed at the spots of light. "Those are my memories."

Loki nodded. "I'm going to give them back to you. That's why I'm here."

"Because you're mine."

"Because you're mine."

He was Loki's.

Loki was his.

It sounded nice. It also sounded incomplete. There was a space between them where they stood. He thought there should be someone there with them.

"There is another," Loki said. "You'll meet her soon."

"When is soon?"

Loki eyed the wispy shadows, clawlike as they spread across the gaps. A disease which left them numb. "There is still work to do."

Loki ripped off a chunk of shadows. Banished it. Another hole opened up.

He'd been a Sergeant in the 107th division, stationed near Italy. After that, he fought on a team. The Howling Commandos. He'd been their ace sniper. He fought alongside his friends…

"Steve…" He rubbed his face. "Who is Steve?"

"Who indeed?" Loki picked apart the darkness surrounding the hole. It grew bigger. He saw more. Dugan and Jones had been in his squad, and then they were prisoners together. Dugan was an asshole. Jones was okay.

"Steve," he said again. It fit on his tongue like well-worn shoes. Shoes… newspaper in shoes. Trying to look taller. He was never tall. "Punk…"

Loki raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"Not you," he said. "Steve. He wasn't tall."

"I see," Loki did not sound impressed. "Was he a friend of yours?"

"Yes..." he said slowly. There was another spot above them. A blonde man looked down at him. He was bigger now. How'd he get so big? "Yes. I knew him."

"Where did you meet?"

"School." He didn't have to think about it. It just came out. "Second grade. He picked a fight and I saved him. He picked a lot of fights. Dumb punk he was."

Loki nodded. "I see."

Tendrils whipped around, the straggly remains of an oppressive force. New cracks formed, new holes revealing new details. He was born in Indiana. His family moved when he was a toddler. He grew up in Brooklyn. Loved the Dodgers. Went to every game.

Steve went with him. He used to pick Steve up so he could see over the crowd. Steve hated that.

"Put me down, you jerk!" he'd say.

"Be grateful, dumbass. If it weren't for me you'd get trampled."

Steve's last name was Rogers. Steve Rogers. His best friend. His brother. They did everything together. They went to art class even though he wasn't good at it. Steve was good at it. He could've made a living. He was too sick to do much else.

The war happened. Japan bombed Pearl Harbor. They were in class when they heard. He was trying to draw a pineapple. Or was it a cantaloupe? Some kind of fruit.

He knew he'd be drafted. Enlisted before it could happen. He was the oldest. The only eligible male in the family. His dad had a bad knee. Arthritis. The doctor said to take it easy.

Steve wanted to go, too. Begged him to help. He humored his friend. Trained him for two weeks. He knew it wouldn't matter and it didn't.

4F.

All five times.

Idiot. Stupid fucking punk.

He was strapped to a table when Steve came for him.

"I thought you were dead."

He looked down, but Steve's face wasn't there. He looked up, up, up-

"I thought you were smaller."

Pain.

Pain.

So much.

Ice.

Why?

_'Sergeant Barnes… the procedure… fist of HYDRA… ice…'_

He grabbed a tendril. Ripped it off with a yell. Loki had it from him and gone in a second. His hands burned but the pain was good. Not like the ice. Not like the machine. Not like HYDRA.

"Let me help," he said.

Loki touched his arm. The real one. "Are you sure?"

He took Loki's hand. He was angry, but not at Loki. Never at Loki. At HYDRA. They did this.

They did this.

"Let me help." He spat the words. "It's my mind."

A shadow reared its hideous face. Roared at them. It looked like a three-headed snake. He took it by the neck. Choked it with the arm they forced on him. Loki destroyed it with a wave.

"Yes," he said. "It is."

**

They made a good team. He'd find a clump of shadows hiding in the memory of his first kiss. Then he'd squeeze it, wishing it was someone's neck. He'd hold it down for Loki to eliminate. Magic worked wonders, taking the shadows HYDRA spent years painstakingly stitching over his consciousness and wiping them away like nothing.

Every time was like taking his first breath. He watched each shadow disintegrate in his hands. They never made a sound. They had no mouths, no eyes, no felt like air between his fingers. Something so small had once been the means of his undoing. Now they were nothing. Just like he had once been nothing.

He wasn't nothing anymore.

"Steve and I had this vacant lot in our town and we'd go looking for boxes so we could make a wall and keep all the other kids out. Worked really great for a while, and then one day it rained and that was it for our boxes."

"The water destroyed your fortress?" Loki asked, eyebrows up.

"That's what happens when you're a pair of dumb kids and think cardboard will last forever."

"Perhaps you should've used something sturdier."

"We were seven. What more do you want?"

Loki hummed, but he didn't look convinced. It was annoying, but the more he talked to Loki, the more he seemed to just be like that. Kind of smug, kind of elitist. Probably a lot older than he looked. He'd remembered a while ago where he heard the name Loki and he had a few questions saved away for later.

"Tell me again the story about your dog and the home invaders."

They had to actively search for shadows at this point. They'd dart around the corners, finally realizing the danger they were in. Their opponents were quick. In his own mind, it had to be so if he willed it. Not that he needed to. He was already faster than any normal man. He might even be faster than Steve, and Steve was a super soldier.

He was a super soldier, too. And he wasn't alone.

He remembered that failed training session. What a goddamn nightmare. He'd have to deal with that bullshit again, wouldn't he? Hopefully not. Where had they stored him this time? It seemed like every time they deemed him worthy of continued existence, he was someplace new. Ready for a new mission.

(He killed people.)

So who was he now?

Was he the boy who defended Steve from bullies?

Was he the man who stepped up when his father couldn't work anymore to care for the family?

Was he the recruit who blew his commanding officers away with his hand to hand and sharpshooting skills?

Was he the sergeant who led his men into battle grossly unprepared for what was to come?

Was he the hero who fought alongside a living legend, not for glory or fame, but for the scrawny kid who had surpassed him in every way?

Was he the prisoner denied the peace of death and strapped to a table for the second time in his life?

Was he the weapon who ended countless lives without a thought except for the unending chant of 'complete the mission'?

Was he someone worthy of being saved?

"Bucky," he said.

Loki stopped. Stared. "James?"

Yes, but no. He shook his head. "I'm Bucky."

Loki didn't speak. His expression didn't change. His eyes were so deep, older than his face. He had the most perfect face Bucky had ever seen on a man. In the past, he'd chosen not to think things like that. It wasn't right and he liked women more anyway. Only once had he allowed himself to wonder. A man in his and Steve's art class who always wore tailored suits and kept his dark hair slicked back. He had a college degree and loved talking about it. Never said what kind of degree he had, but he did have a degree. It was signed and everything. He had douche written all over his face, but there was just something about him. Bucky used to dream about his hands. They looked strong, yet soft.

So did Loki's. Pure white and uncalloused, Bucky sucked in a breath when they found his shoulders. He could feel Loki's power. This strange man who wasn't a man could crush him if he wanted to.

Loki hugged him.

Bucky forgot how to react and went stiff. His arms stayed flat at his sides. He stared over Loki's shoulder at his fourteen-year-old self putting a box of dog treats on his old mutt's grave. It switched to Steve supporting him as they escaped the prison camp.

"It's time," Loki said. "Close your eyes."

His voice was so soothing, Bucky couldn't not obey. He dropped his head on Loki's shoulder, allowing himself to relax. Two layers of armor separated them. He drew his fingers through Loki's silky black hair, ignoring the tattered, knotted lock of dark brown which had fallen over his face. If Loki tried to return the gesture, Bucky would never survive the embarrassment.

Time and space shifted, air thinning and thickening faster than he could process. They fell a few feet, then stopped, then rose again. He wasn't scared like he should've been. Another version of himself might've punched Loki in the face and demanded off the ride. He never would've trusted someone invading his mind and claiming to help him. HYDRA claimed he was working for the good of humanity. They never said that by 'humanity' they meant themselves.

And yet, he trusted Loki. He let this complete stranger who wasn't even human carry him off through whatever metaphysical realm existed between the mind and the body.

They landed on a hilltop overlooking a miles long forest. Far in the distance was a cityscape, one he didn't recognize. He heard once that people only dreamed about places they'd been to in real life, and he knew he'd never seen a place like this before.

"Where are we?" He looked at the sky, full of more stars than he ever thought possible.

"It's not you," Loki said, which proved Bucky wasn't losing it, but not much else. "We have entered the mind of another. Someone who will become very special to both of us."

He nodded at a shape across the way. It took the form of a woman on her back, watching the stars. Long brown hair framed her face like a halo. It matched her warm brown eyes and her soft pink lips. She dressed like a man, but that might just be the fashion trends for women in the twenty-first century. Bucky didn't mind. Her blue jeans fit her shapely legs like a glove, and the open plaid shirt with a white tank top underneath just seemed to suit her.

He stared for so long, it was a wonder she didn't spot him. He'd seen men get slapped for less, and here he was gawking open-mouthed like a teenager who'd snuck into a peep show.

"She is lovely," Loki said, "is she not?"

Bucky could've smacked him for such a stupid question. "Who is she?"

The woman sat up, stretching her arms and neck. Her head turned. Her eyes widened a fraction, but she didn't jump up or scream or react at all. As if their presence in her mind was a common occurrence.

"Her name is Jane." Loki nudged Bucky forward. "We're here because she is ours."

The woman- Jane- walked up to them. She was tiny, barely reaching their necks. Her face was even more beautiful up close.

"Who are you?"

Loki smiled. "You will find out soon enough, but we have come to visit you, my dear."

Something primal in Bucky wanted to shove Loki aside and keep Jane's attention on him. It flared up and died within moments. There was no reason for him to be jealous. Loki was his and he was Loki's. And Jane was theirs.

"Am I dreaming?" She looked at her hands as if making sure they were real.

"In a way," Loki said. "This is happening in your mind, but it is only slightly less real than a physical encounter. My research tells me anything we say in this realm has no effect on our bond. Not until we meet in the waking world will our real first words be spoken."

Jane stared at him, and then at Bucky. She considered them both before her shoulders sagged. "Darcy was right. I do need to get laid."

Loki chuckled, though it was clear in his eyes he didn't know what that meant. Bucky thought about telling him, but it was kind of nice seeing the all-knowing god look so baffled.

Fresh blankets appeared on the grass, spread flat with no creases. Bucky's legs started to ache, or perhaps they always did and he hadn't noticed before. Either way, he'd been standing far too long and those blankets did look comfy. He plopped down and Jane sat with him. Loki, it seemed, was worried about getting grass stains on his fancy armor. He was a long, brooding shadow on the horizon. It was kind of ridiculous, but also kind of mesmerizing.

The sun fell from the sky, having come and gone several times since they arrived. There was no rhyme or reason to time here, but of course, there wasn't. This was a dream. It was Jane's dream. She proved that when she raised her hands to the sky, summoning more stars. More than there existed in this galaxy. She molded them like clay into new constellations. Orion waved at them. Bucky's grandfather took him camping upstate one summer, and he saw the hunter every night, forever chasing that damn mother bear and her cub.

"Everything," Jane murmured.

Bucky's eyes flicked to her. "What?"

She pointed. "There. In the sky."

"I see it."

"No," she said. Finally, she met his gaze. "Up there is everything."

Her enthusiasm got him in the chest and took hold of his heart, but though he was happy to let her teach him all there was to know about the stars, he had to disagree. Everything he needed was right here beside him. Jane on the right, Loki on the left. The stars lit the way. The shadows were gone. If they stayed here forever, he'd be content.

Jane told him all about the sky. Every name and backstory. He asked a few questions; Loki asked fewer. Her presence alone was a boon after so long fighting through the thickets of HYDRA's poison. Bucky didn't know what would be waiting for him when Jane woke up, but there were still so many memories he had to relive. What happened to that school bully who pushed Steve in the mud and stomped on his art project? Or the impulsive infantryman who ran into gunfire, thinking he'd be a hero?

A shrill ringing filled the air as Jane vanished from sight. The hill went with her, leaving him and Loki in a blank void.

"It is morning," Loki grumbled. "Her version of it."

"Will we see her again?"

"In due time." Loki took him in his arms. "You will have the pleasure before I do, but we will all of us find our way to each other."

The return trip was smoother than the initial departure. Bucky wondered if Loki wasn't just messing with him the first time. Much as Bucky owed the man his life and sanity, he did seem the type to play stupid games like that.

His mind was clear and full of visions. There was the bully, now face down in the mud with young Bucky's foot on his head. He'd spend a week in detention for this, but it was worth it. That bully never bothered Steve again. Next, Bucky and Steve made plans to raid the HYDRA base in Czechoslovakia. Then he helped his mother carry the goose out for Christmas dinner.

So many moments he had lost. He told Loki about all of them. It helped him remember the smaller details. He made a fist as though he could physically hold his own mind. No one would take this from him ever again.

Never again.

"The time is coming," Loki said. "I have heard your captors. They will awaken you soon."

Bucky nodded. He knew what Loki wasn't saying. "What about you?"

"I will be with you the whole time, though you won't see me." Loki took his arm. He was oddly cold for a moment, but then warmth pulsed from his fingers into Bucky's blood. "Until we meet again, this will all be a dream to you. You will remember me only in pieces."

"I doubt that." Bucky took his hand and kissed it.

"You are quite the charmer." Loki caressed his cheek, pulling their faces together. It was strange, but at the same time, right. They should've done this with Jane when they had the chance.

"I feel funny," Bucky said. Loki wasn't as solid as he was a moment ago. Nothing was.

Loki cursed. "We have less time than I thought. No matter, they cannot touch you. I have made sure of it. Remember that you are a free man, James Barnes. You are not a weapon, you are a warrior. Show them."

He had seconds and he knew it. Not even seconds. Barely enough time to scrape his lips across Loki's and whisper in his ear. "Mine."

The last thing he heard was a husky growl. "Mine."

And then there was ice.

He burst through like a man drowning, gasping for air to scream. His lung burned before he took a breath. Rough hands dragged him, his toes scraping uselessly against the floor. They didn't give him a moment to think, but of course not. He wasn't a person to them, just a body. Just a tool for them to use.

They threw him in a chair. The chair. Something deep and visceral within him recognized it. He wanted to run but they were too smart. Metal clamps restrained him. Men in lab coats wandered by on the way to their stations. Some of them stopped to greet their co-workers. An assistant refilled the coffee urn. Machinery churned over a discussion of last night's football game. FC Rostov was the favorite this year.

He heard it all as clearly as he heard Steve's voice in his head. "You look pathetic," his eight-year-old self said.

That was the day Bucky asked Patty Morris to be his girlfriend and she rejected him because he was too short (he had his first growth spurt a month later so the joke was on her). He remembered the exact infliction of Steve's voice; his grin when Bucky told him where he could stick it. Cuss words were still forbidden fruit at that age. The two boys ate from the tree with fervor until their teacher caught them and tanned their backsides.

Bucky held onto that memory. There were more just like it.

 _'James Barnes,'_  he said to himself. His handler held a red book with a black star on the cover.  _'I'm James Barnes. James Barnes. James Barnes.'_

"Желание"

His body tensed. The cold was fading, but that chill which always came with his trigger words would never fade if he lived another hundred years.

"Ржавый"

This was it. Now he would forget and fall into the abyss. He was only a body. Only a weapon.

"Семнадцать"

It was strange, though. The fear of his monstrous other had not left him. In fact, it grew with each word. Anguish swirled in his stomach so fast he thought he'd vomit. When was the last time he ever felt so much?

"Рассвет"

Any second now, the pain would leave him. Everything would leave him. His name, his family, Steve, the strange, calming voice in his head telling him everything would be all right. His hands would tingle and his mind would die, like falling into a deep sleep.

"Печь"

But he wasn't tired. He was wide awake and he could still recite his serial number.

"Девять"

He remembered the breed of his first dog, the color of Rebecca's dress when they went to Aunt Clara's wedding, the ashy stain on the carpet from where his father once dropped a cigar.

"Добросрдечный"

The thought came to him like lightning, but it was too good to be true. They were seven words in with three to go. He should be gone by now. He should be a drooling zombie waiting to be pointed at a target. He should not be having this internal conflict. These words were his chains. They were a part of him.

"возвращение на родину"

Yet, here he was. James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant in the 107th division and second in command of the Howling Commandos. Eldest son of George and Winifred Barnes. Best friend of Steve Rogers. The best damn sniper the US military had ever seen with an unbeatable record.

And they were just words.

"Один"

They. Were. Just. Words.

"грузовой вагон"

His handler stopped pacing. The man, short and pudgy with a butter face and too much stubble, filled Bucky's vision. "Soldat?"

Bucky relaxed his body. It was easier than he expected. Slipping back into the role of a mindless killing machine took only a steadying of his hands and a glassy stare. He inhaled through his nose, exhaled through his mouth. Metal scraping and hushed speech were the only sounds around him, but in his ears, there was screaming.

"готов подчиниться"

The handler nodded, and the restraints came off. Bucky's wrists ached, but he didn't dare rub them. The handler walked away and Bucky knew to follow. Seventy years he'd been doing this. With every other memory he'd miraculously regained came the knowledge of what he should do. Head up, shoulders back, no expression. He was a blank slate for them to write their commands on. No thoughts of his own. No desires.

The perfect machine.

His arm plates shifted. The extra weight barely slowed him down. He felt the bolts in his spine holding it in place. They didn't hurt but were omnipresent. A part of him he'd live with for the rest of his life. The first time he saw it, he tried to strangle a man. Would've succeeded if they hadn't drowned him in sedative. That was a decent memory. He'd hold on to it for a while.

They entered the armory, and a pair of assistants helped him suit up. He was given all manner of weapon as the handler briefed him on the mission. It was another assassination, or maybe it was recon. Bucky heard every sixth word as he took stock of everything he had on him. Three pistols, two knives, one machine gun, one grenade launcher. There was a sniper rifle within arm's reach and a big red button on the left-hand wall. Every room had one just like it because HYDRA was nothing if not prepared.

Or so they thought.

Next, they ran diagnostics on his arm. It was a simple process. The metal was resistant to prolonged exposure to ice. He bent his elbow when told to and balled his hand into a fist. He threw a punch at the air. No glitching or shorting. He was as graceful as if every part of him was flesh and blood.

A man with a tablet typed up notes. He muttered in German congratulatory words to the original mechanics. Most of them would be dead by now, including the man Bucky choked.

"Do you understand the mission?"

The handler stared at him. Bucky stared back. Every ounce of training he had ever received, from HYDRA, from basic, from playing tag after school, went into this moment. He heard a voice pierce his skull. It didn't sound like him, but it came from him.

'I'm here,' it said. 'I'm with you. Make them pay.'

"Soldat." The handler grabbed his cheeks and forced him to look up. "I said do you understand?"

He shoved Bucky's face. For a second, he was demure, submissive. Machines didn't care if they were manhandled. When someone hit a TV for not working, the TV didn't hit back.

For one final second, Bucky was their pet.

Then he smiled.

"Yeah, I know my mission."

As he put a bullet between the man with the tablet's eyes, he buried the image of his handler's horrified face deep in his memory. For the rest of his life he would cherish this moment. As he would the sound of the second assistant's body hitting the floor. Blood gushed from a hole in his neck. He gasped and choked and died slowly. Bucky didn't wait to watch it happen.

The handler staggered back as alarms blared. Of course, the bastards would have cameras in every room. No big deal. He'd just have to make this quick.

Five men in heavy tactical gear charged inside. Bullets flew in all directions. They didn't waste any time and seemed not to care if they hit friend or foe. One man broke off from the group. When Bucky grabbed him and he screamed, he sounded young. That made it hard, but not hard enough. He twisted the man's neck and let him drop.

His comrades kept shooting. Bucky tucked and rolled behind a metal shelf. It was bolted to the ground, but he had yet to find anything strong enough to withstand his arm. A few good pushes brought it crashing down. Two men were crushed and now he had no cover. Strangely enough, they still couldn't hit him. Every bullet close enough to do damage always diverted course at the last second. At least one made it an inch from his chest only to ricochet off the air.

 _'They can't touch you,'_  the voice that wasn't his said.  _'I won't let them.'_

A shout in Russian. It sounded like, "Surrender."

Bucky frowned and cocked his gun. The alarms were getting louder and more agents were coming.

 _'Make them pay,'_  the voice had said.

So he did.

It was hard to say how long it took or how many bodies he left in his wake. Whoever he came across met him gun first, and when he ran out of bullets, knife first. A man with a machete jumped on his head. Bucky pushed him off and left the blade in his stomach. Two guys in masks shot grenades at him. They destroyed a perfectly good bridge, which delayed his escape by forty seconds. He repaid them with fist-shaped holes in their necks.

He knew everything he had done as the Winter Soldier. If there was any downside to freedom, it was that. He knew all the ways he could end a human life, had made use of over half of them in the last few minutes. At no point did he scream like he wanted to. He didn't curse their wretched existence. He didn't make a sound as the life ebbed away from their undeserving bodies one by one. This monster was the last thing so many innocent people had ever seen. Now it was the last thing HYDRA would see.

The foundation shook as he pressed his fifth red button. He'd only needed one to activate self-destruct, but better safe than sorry. At the end of the line, he found a familiar face in the main office, desperately dialing on an ancient phone and swearing as he got the numbers wrong. Bucky shot it out of his hands. The handler howled with rage and fired twice at him. Bucky stopped the bullets with his metal hand and punched the man to the floor.

The handler fought to stand, but Bucky was faster. He grabbed his head and squeezed.

"Tell me something," he rasped as the handler's skull cracked. "Do you like this?"

The handler gasped and whimpered. He couldn't speak. Blood vessels in his eyes popped, turning them bright red.

"When someone fucks with your head.  _Do you like it? DO YOU?"_

The handler's head popped. Blood and brain matter hit the wall and ran down Bucky's chest. The body slumped over, twitching and already turning grey. Bucky stared down at it before pushing it aside with his foot. He had five minutes before the whole bunker went up in flames and not much time to get what he needed.

Ripping out the drawers, he found the cash box and stuffed it in a knapsack someone had left by the door. He threw it over his shoulders and searched for anything else he might need. A row of keys nailed to the wall was labeled either van or snowmobile. Maybe old Schmidt's secret club wasn't as secure as he thought.

Monitors on the wall showed only chaos, as the few agents who survived his assault bled from various wounds and tried in vain to drag themselves across the floor. None of them were getting out of this, so Bucky left them to their fate. On the top left screen was the basement lab, where five cryo-pods sat untouched for over twenty years. Bucky's eyes lingered on them, fast asleep and oblivious to their fate. Another minute passed, but he couldn't look away.

 _'You can't help them,'_  said the voice.  _'They made their choice. There is no time to waste. Go now.'_

He hoped it was true.

Two minutes later, a snowmobile burst out of the holding deck as the ceiling collapsed and the entire shelf of ice crumbled in. Bucky drove five miles in under ten minutes without having to open up the throttle. Inside the cockpit, he had a full heating system and a GPS. The nearest town was thirty minutes away. Half an hour was all that ever separated him from civilization and Hell.

He kept driving, as the billowing smoke clouds grew smaller out the rearview mirror. Eventually, they disappeared. Sometime later, the snowmobile came to a halt in the middle of a large embankment. It's no different from any other spot in this sprawling white landscape. Far off, he saw lights; at least twenty dotting the horizon. The GPS told him he was less than a mile from civilization.

From freedom.

Bucky's hands tightened, including the metal one. It was self-repairing and no damage remained from his rampage. The plates shifted and slid against each other, the resulting screech was high pitched and ugly. Bucky stared at his stubbled face in the rearview mirror, framed by wild hair and not a day older than the last time he marched into battle at Steve's right hand.

He screamed. He had no idea how long he'd been holding it in, but he tore his throat apart and slammed his fists on the dashboard until it cracked. When he couldn't scream anymore, he cried, uncontrollable sobs pulsing through his body. When he couldn't cry anymore, he slept. Three hours had passed before he awoke, aching everywhere and freezing even though the snowmobile had maintained a steady internal temperature.

He stopped once more at a frozen lake. Punching a hole in the two feet thick ice, he disposed of all but one gun and one knife. They sank into the rocks below, out of sight but never out of mind.

The feeling of being watched never left him. It was there when he handed the elderly proprietor of the town's only inn a wad of bills. When he was wolfing down three bowls of borscht in front of a fireplace, he thought someone was in the seat next to him. When he was in the bathroom, throwing it back up, he could've sworn a pair of hands were holding his hair back.

He didn't sleep. The hard leather seat in the snowmobile was somehow comfier than a mattress. He tossed and turned until sunrise, all the while kept warm by a single thin blanket and the ever-present sensation of invisible heat draped over him.

The sky was calm the next morning. Perfect weather for a train ride. The proprietor, who freely acknowledged her poor eyesight while counting out his payment, brought him a fresh set of clothes with his breakfast tray. "These were my late husband's from the war, but they should fit you."

"Thank you, Ma'am," Bucky said, laying out a pair of tactical pants and a thick gray sweater.

"Better than the shirt you have now if you don't mind me saying." She gestured at his silver arm. "The sleeves match on this one."

It took him an extra twenty minutes to leave after opening the door getting pummeled by a pile of snow. Bucky dug the woman out, accepting only a small lunch box as payment. He fought through three feet of snow to reach the train station and bought a one-way ticket to Moscow. Estimated time of arrival? Eighteen hours.

He spent the time in his cabin, the smallest one they had. He didn't cry again. His eyes were dry even as he finally got himself to sleep and dreamed of cold hands holding him down as electrical current surged through his bones.

When he wasn't tossing and turning or sneaking rolls out of the dinner cart, he curled up by the window and stared at his hands. The metal was smooth and free of blemish, gleaming the light. He traced letters over his palm, mouthing along as he worked. They were one of the last things to come back to him, but now that he remembered, the words would never leave him again.

His soulmark had been with him since he was born. Long, thick letters written in an elegant font like something out of Medieval Europe. Fairly atypical for modern times, but not cause for alarm. Bucky started noticing girls while his friends still thought they had cooties, but he'd joked to his family more than once how masculine the handwriting was.

(He only ever told Steve that he wouldn't mind if it were true.)

HYDRA took the words away from him.

Okay, so the fall did that, but it never would've happened if that armored fuck hadn't shot him through the window.

The second mark came later.

Unlike the first one, these words were small and messy, and most assuredly female. He didn't know how long they'd been there. At least a few decades. One day they pulled him out of cryo and there it was, clear as day. No one knew what to do about it. Ideas were thrown out while he sat motionless on an operating table. He didn't know what 'solution' they came to, he just prayed he wouldn't have to worry about it anymore.

If he ever found either of his soulmates, he didn't know what he'd do.

 _'Run,'_  he told himself with a hollow chuckle.  _'They'll be safer that way.'_

 _'Don't be so sure,'_  said the voice in his head.

He wanted so much to believe it.

**

At the airport, Bucky counted his remaining cash. He had more than enough to buy a ticket to any country he wanted. What he lacked was any sort of proper identification. It made for an uncomfortable flight hidden with the baggage, but he'd had worse. So much worse.

From London, he flew to New York. From New York to Albuquerque. There was no rhyme or reason to what flights he chose, or so he told himself. HYDRA had no interest whatsoever in the American Southwest, so it was a safe bet.

 _'Almost there,'_  he heard as he boarded a bus bound for Fort Sumner.

They stopped at a convenience store in the middle of the desert halfway through the trip. It was a tiny village surrounded by other tiny villages. Some of them had welcome signs with names he couldn't read. Others marked their city limits with old cow skulls and oddly shaped rocks. They all blended together after hours of watching them fly by.

"So what else is out here?" he asked as the clerk rang up his half dozen Hershey bars and cool ranch Doritos.

The man looked like no customer had ever spoken to him, let alone asked about the sights. "What else? What else like what?"

Bucky shrugged. He'd switched to a pair of jeans, a heavy jacket, and a baseball cap. Not the best choice for ninety-degree weather, but it kept eyes off him. "I don't know. Other towns, landmarks, anything interesting?"

"Only if you're one of them alien conspirators. Then you want to go down to Roswell and look for symbols in the sand." The clerk laughed at his own joke. "Otherwise, we got Wolfpine up north, Puente Antiguo to the east… oh, and down by Montelva they have this old tree with a crack in the bark that looks like Florida-"

"Excuse me. Sorry, but could you tell me which way Puente Antiguo is again?"

 _'There.'_  The voice screamed like a dozen bells going off at once.  _'Go there. That's the place.'_

"'Bout five miles east," said the clerk. "Whole lot of nothing, but if you really want to go, I hope that bus o' yours'll take you. Otherwise, you're walking."

Bucky threw the man a twenty and left with a happily swinging plastic bag. Talking to the driver, he learned he bus would indeed pass Puente Antiguo, but it wasn't a scheduled stop. A hundred dollar bill took care of that. Fifteen minutes later, the bus pulled away, leaving him on a main street that looked more like a back alley in Brooklyn.

He passed a small diner, the woman inside serving pancakes to a family of four. Bucky's stomach rumbled. He took out a Hershey bar and nibbled it as he explored the shops lining the street. There was a small bookstore, a bar, and a pet shop. A video store on the corner sported a blinking New Releases sign, but there were only VHS tapes in the window display.

"Outdated," he muttered, then smiled to himself.

He thought about getting a beer, maybe seeing if alcohol had any effect on him anymore. A group of teenage boys were loitering outside the pet shop smoking cigarettes. Bucky spared them a glance and moved on. With any luck, they'd ignore him right back.

"Hey, buddy!"

Bucky kept walking like he didn't hear them.

"Hey!" One of the boys rushed into his path. "Got a light?"

Bucky shook his head.

"Got a drink?"

"I don't have anything."

"Where you going?"

"I'm just walking."

"Walking where?"

Bucky shrugged.

The biggest of the group, who only just reached his eyes, got into his face. "Never seen you before, stranger. Where you from?"

"Around." Bucky shoved his hands in his pockets. "Just passing through. Do you mind-"

"I don't know." The other boys snickered as the big one grinned with crooked teeth. "Do I mind?"

It would not come to blows. He told himself that as he tried to sidestep the group, only to find himself surrounded on all sides. Exactly what they hoped to get from him, when he'd gone the extra mile to look no better than a hobo, he couldn't say.

The few people walking the streets steered clear of the confrontation. Bucky didn't blame them. Most were older or had children. Only one woman, petite and carrying a box full of rusty car parts, stopped to look.

"Hey Ricky," she shouted. "Are you guys trying to get booze money off people again?"

"No," the boy, Ricky, mumbled.

"Hope I don't have to call your mom."

"No Doc, we were just talking to the new guy. That's all."

The gang slunk off into the shadows, leaving Bucky and the woman alone in the center of the street. She checked her box, which was more than half her size and clearly too heavy for her. Bucky wanted to offer to carry it, but he couldn't get the words out. He just stared at her face, her brown eyes and soft features. They reminded him of the sky.

"Don't worry about them," she said, "they're all bark and no bite. Can I help you find anything?"

Bucky could pinpoint the moment the world fell away, and it was right then. He didn't hear the bar patrons shouting at the TV, or the squawking of birds in the pet shop, or the single truck chugging down the road, driven by an old man who peered at them through a pair of sunglasses. He didn't see if anyone else was watching. If they were, he didn't care. The woman, whose name he shouldn't know, but felt like he did, ceased smiling as he gaped at her.

"Um… are you okay?"

Bucky rubbed his flesh hand. Her words tingled like electricity.

The woman shrugged. "All right then."

She was leaving.

Bucky grabbed her arm. He knew what a stupid move it was, but not until after he'd done it. His jaw hung, his brain shut down. The woman went still and stared at him, confused, almost fearful.

She was afraid of him.

 _'Speak to her,'_  the voice said.  _'She's yours.'_

He could hear his heart again. It was all the way in his skull.

"I've been looking for you," he said, his voice strangled and high-pitched, but still very much his. "Everywhere…"

She started to answer, but as his words registered, her voice died. "Wha..."

He let go when he was sure she wouldn't drop the box on her foot. Removing his glove, he raised his hand for her to read. Her left hand clenched, bending the cardboard. She couldn't show him right now, but he didn't need to see it.

Slowly, her smile returned.

And Bucky knew he wouldn't run.


End file.
